


Night Life

by devovitsuasartes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Awkward Sex, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:28:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: Mickey's usual full moon plans are derailed when he finds Ian Gallagher crawling out of a fresh grave.





	1. Night Life

Chicago’s nightlife sucks. Not the clubs and bars - well, they are shitty, but Mickey’s more concerned with the _other_ kind of nightlife. He did some digging around after he got bitten and, like turning over a log in the woods, he found that there were all sorts of creepy things crawling around on the underbelly of the city: banshees, zombies, vampires, shapeshifters, witches, incubi, succubi and, yeah, a few other werewolves. But apparently Mickey’s pack mentality hasn’t kicked in yet because he thinks all the werewolves he’s met so far are fucking assholes. He’d rather chew his own arm off than run around on the full moon with them.

Unfortunately this limits his options when the time comes to transform, because all the really good bits of woodland on the outskirts of Chicago - including fucking Wolf Road Woods, of course - have already been claimed as territory. So once a month Mickey crosses the river and spends the full moon romping around in a scrappy little bit of woodland by the train tracks. All by himself.

That time of the month (ugh) has come around again, so Mickey’s making his way down to the woods again. It’s fucking far, but he doesn’t get tired when there’s a full moon on the way. He can practically feel his fur prickling under his skin, demanding to be let out, and a low thrum of aggression in his belly.

This journey is routine now, but on this particular night something happens to break up the routine. Mickey is close to the woods, cutting across a cemetery because he knows he’s running fucking late, when his sharp eyes catch sight of some movement in the distance. Mickey freezes involuntarily, staring at the approximate spot where he saw it, his nostrils flaring as he sniffs the air. Now that he’s paying attention, he can tell that there’s something weird going down. All this supernatural shit has the same underlying scent - kind of earthy and electric.

Mickey sees it again: movement in the soil over a fresh grave. He wanders over to it cautiously. There’s a fresh wreath, and one of those cheap plastic markers that they use as a placeholder while the gravestone gets made up. The funeral must have only happened today. Mickey can smell salty tears where they’ve soaked into the grass.

The soil stirs again, swells up like the goddamn earth itself is taking a deep breath, creating cracks that fill with loose dirt. Mickey knows he should get moving, but instead he squats down by the graveside. He’s pretty sure he knows what this is. There are lots of monsters in Chicago, but not many that crawl out of graves, and he can’t smell zombie stink on this one.

Sure enough, the fingertips that come poking through the topsoil are pale and smooth, not grey and rotting. They pause when they come into contact with the cold night air, wiggle around a little, then curl around and start digging frantically, trying to claw more dirt out of the way.

This really isn’t any of Mickey’s business. He should move the fuck on, get ready for the full moon. But instead he leans down closer to the grave and says, ‘Yo, keep digging. You’re nearly out.’

The fingers that were clawing at the soil freeze momentarily when Mickey speaks, but then another hand emerges from the grave, stretching towards the sky. The vampire (gotta be a vampire) is struggling, seems exhausted. Mickey’s spent enough time in underworld bars to know that there should be another vampire here, a master, to help dig its new protégé out. Apparently that asshole hasn’t shown up, though, so as soon as the baby vamp manages to get a whole hand out in the air, Mickey grabs hold of it firmly with both hands, digs his heels into the ground, leans back and pulls as hard as he can.

There’s resistance at first. Then, like one of those gross videos of cows giving birth that Mickey had been forced to watch in school, the top half of the vampire’s body is dragged out of its grave. It lands on its face, still half buried, and Mickey falls back and lands on his ass.

‘Fuck!’ he yells loudly, more out of irritation than pain. The vampire is busy climbing the rest of the way out of the ground, panting heavily and (he probably hasn’t figured this out yet) unnecessarily. Once he’s free he scuttles away from the grave like a crab, staring at it in horror.

Mickey stands up again, dusts himself off. Gets his first good look at the vampire. It’s just a kid, really - must have been around Mickey’s age when he died. Lucky guy. He’s going to look like that forever now.

With an anxious glance at the dimming light on the horizon, Mickey sticks out a hand in front of the vampire’s face. ‘C’mon, get up,’ he snaps. ‘I ain’t got all night.’

The vampire stares at Mickey’s hand, then up at Mickey nervously. Mickey loses patience, grabs the vampire’s hand and drags him to his feet. He beats the shoulders of the kid’s funeral suit briskly, trying to get some of the dirt off, and it’s not until the vampire scrubs his sleeve over his hair and face and dislodges the worst of the mess that Mickey realizes he recognizes him.

‘Holy shit,’ he exclaims. ‘Gallagher?’

Ian Gallagher looks at him, wrinkles his brow in confusion ‘Mickey?’

They don’t, like, _know_ each other. Not really. But they went to the same high school and lived in the same neighborhood. Mickey used to swipe shit from the convenience store where Gallagher worked, and the redhead would yell at him about it but not really do anything. Mickey probably would have recognized him sooner, but his eyesight is starting to shift and although he can see real good in the dark, he can’t see a whole lot of color. So Gallagher’s hair just looks kind of grey-green.

Yeah, actually, come to think of it he did hear that Gallagher had died. Mugging gone wrong, was what Mickey had heard. He hadn’t paid much attention to it at the time, but Mandy had been kind of broken up about it.

Gallagher’s looking at his grave again, all wide-eyed like a goddamn bunny rabbit. Jesus. ‘What’s going on?’ he pleads. ‘Mickey, what…?’

Mickey grimaces. This is not his goddamn responsibility. This is not even his goddamn species. But shit, Gallagher’s maker is a no-show and Mickey can at least cover the basics.

‘Yo, so, uh…’ He scratches the corner of his eyebrow. ‘You’re a vampire. Guess you got bit. So you’re dead now but, like, not. And you gotta drink blood.’ He racks his brain, trying to think of something else to mention. ‘Oh, and don’t go out in sunlight. You’ll burn the fuck up. Oh shit, you’ll probably burn _real_ fast. A ginger vampire? You’re fucked, man.’ Mickey laughs. It’s a rough sound, got kind of a guttural snarl to it. Shit, he needs to move.

With an awkward shrug, he turns away from Gallagher and starts walking briskly in the direction of the woodland, but he hasn’t gone far when he hears the pad of footsteps running up behind him.

‘Wait,’ Gallagher calls. ‘What do I do? This isn’t real, right? I can’t be a... I _can’t_ be…’

‘You’re a vampire,’ Mickey repeats, glancing back over his shoulder. ‘Go eat someone, you’ll feel better.’

‘Eat someone?’

‘Yeah. _Suck zeir blood_ or whatever. I don't fuckin' know. Do what comes naturally.’

Gallagher darts in front of him, his expression desperate, his mouth open in distress so that Mickey can see his brand new fangs. ‘Just stop for a second!’ he pleads. ‘How do you even know this stuff? About vampires and, and…’

Mickey barges past, shoulder-checking Gallagher in the process. ‘Ain’t got time for this shit,’ he growls. ‘You wanna talk? You gotta walk and talk.’

They’re at the boundary of the cemetery now. Mickey vaults over the low wall, lands neatly on the sidewalk and hears his new undead pal do the same. After a beat of silence, Gallagher says nervously, ‘Your eyes.’

‘What about ‘em?’

‘When… when you looked at me just now, the light caught them. They were…’ He stops, then asks in a low whisper. ‘Are you a vampire too?’

Mickey snorts. ‘Werewolf,’ he corrects, being careful to fucking enunciate so Gallagher won’t ask him to repeat himself. He rolls his shoulders restlessly, grits his teeth. Shit. He can feel the fucking fur growing down his spine already. He spent too goddamn long in the cemetery.

The moon is up, that bitch is fucking _up_.

Mickey breaks into a sprint, resisting the urge to go down on all fours. Once he does that, it’s over. He can see the treeline from here. He can smell rabbits and rats and mice and raccoons and all kinds of delicious things that crawl around at night, when they think they’re safe. Mickey is going to show them they’re wrong. He’s going to crush their bones between his teeth.

By the time he reaches the trees, his body is already making the horrible cracking noises that accompany the shift. Mickey lets his backpack fall off his shoulders, shoves his sweatpants down his legs, kicks off his sneakers and drags his shirt over his head. It’s only then that he realizes Gallagher is still there, hovering nervously, glancing around like he’s trying to avoid staring at Mickey’s naked body.

Well, if he’s not going to fucking leave then he might as well help. ‘Here,’ Mickey snaps, picking up the backpack and shoving it in Gallagher’s direction. ‘You fucking owe me. Pack up my shit, stash it somewhere safe.’

Gallagher takes the backpack, looking a little dazed. ‘Uh, where should I…?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Mickey taps the side of his nose. ‘I’ll find it.’

He’s spared from being asked any more questions when the full moon appears from behind a cloud, triggering a full shift suddenly and violently. Mickey feels a stab of pain in his stomach, doubles over, and then he’s on four paws and his body is covered in thick, bristly grey fur, his mouth full of sharp teeth, saliva drooling and hanging in strings from his jaws. The dead thing is still there and he growls at it in warning, feeling a thrill of satisfaction as it cringes away from him. Then Mickey hears a rustling in the dead leaves, somewhere nearby, and he digs his paws into the earth and bounds away, letting the forest swallow him up.

* * *

Waking up naked and dirty and cold in the woods is like the worst kind of fucking hangover. Mickey still hasn’t gotten used to it, and he doubts it’ll get any better. In fact, it’ll probably be like most hangovers and just get worse with age.

The sun is up, the light watery and thin through the cloud cover, as Mickey stands up and stretches, wincing at the crack of knots in his back. He can feel the telltale stiffness of dried blood around his mouth and his stomach feels uncomfortable and bloated in a familiar way that tells Mickey he’s going to be shitting animal bone fragments for a week. Yeah, this is the shit that they left out of _Twilight_.

Mickey wanders back to where he entered the treeline, sniffs deeply until he finds the familiar scent of his backpack, mingled with the tangy sourness of grave dirt, and sets about tracking down his clothes. He half expects to find them in a big pile of ash, given how fucking clueless Gallagher is as a vampire, but instead he follows the smell until it takes him to a big pipe that serves as a sewer entrance.

Gallagher is hiding inside, out of the sunlight, but Mickey can smell burned flesh and - sure enough - part of Gallagher’s hand is blackened and sore-looking.

‘Told you not to go in the sun, moron,’ he says, by way of greeting.

Gallagher doesn’t look up, just stares glumly at his hand. ‘I had to be sure.’

‘You got fucking fangs, how sure do you need to be?’ Mickey sticks out his hand. ‘Clothes.’

The vampire shucks Mickey’s backpack off, the worn khaki material looking odd against Gallagher’s smart funeral suit, and tosses it over. Mickey grabs it in mid-air, tugs his clothes out one-by-one and puts them on, then dips his hands into the dirty water and uses it to wash the blood from his face.

When he turns his attention back to Gallagher, the kid is staring at him morosely. Mickey chews his lip, suddenly uncertain. He wants to go home, wants to take a bath, but for some dumb-fuck reason he feels bad about just leaving the newborn vamp by himself.

‘Stupid-ass place to hide,’ he comments at last. ‘You know you’re stuck in this sewer til nightfall, right?’

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Gallagher replies in this dumb self-pitying voice.

‘How about anywhere but a fucking sewer?’ Mickey sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. ‘Look, try to catch some Zs. When the sun goes down again, head over to Molly’s on West Marquette. There’s an alley next to it. Knock on the big metal door, show ‘em your fangs, they’ll let you in.’

Gallagher’s lips move for a few seconds like he’s trying to memorize the instructions. ‘Is it a vampire den?’ he asks nervously.

‘Nah, just a bar. For people like you and me. Freaks. There’s usually some vamps in there. They can give you some pointers, maybe help you find the asshole who bit you and left you hanging. Plus there’s human blood on tap. Should keep you going til you find someone to eat.’

‘Thanks,’ Gallagher says, but it sounds kinda sarcastic. The kid is staring down at his once-shiny black shoes. He’s a pretty pitiful sight - still smeared all over with grave dirt, the skin underneath it pale, almost translucent. But fuck it, he’s not Mickey’s problem any more.

Mickey’s at the sewer entrance when he hears Gallagher call out, ‘Mickey? Thanks.’ This time it sounds a bit more sincere. ‘And I… I won’t tell anyone. You know, about what you are.’

Mickey rolls his eyes, calls back over his shoulder, ‘Who the fuck would you tell, man?’ Then he leaves and begins the long trip back to the South Side on tired legs, the morning dew soaking into his shoes.


	2. Batty Call

If there’s one thing that Mickey hates - really fucking _hates_ \- it’s being woken up before he’s ready to wake up. One time Iggy woke him up in the middle of a really great nap and Mickey gave him a black eye. Everyone in the Milkovich family (except for Terry, who doesn’t give a shit) has learned not to wake Mickey up unless it’s for a seriously good reason, so when a soft bang stirs him from his sleep at four in the goddamn morning, Mickey goes from snoozing to raging in about three seconds.

‘The fuck?’ he growls, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and glaring around the room. There’s another bang and a muffled squeaking noise as something hits the window and Mickey groans, drags himself reluctantly out of his warm bed and rips the curtains open. He looks out into the night, and there are a few seconds of silence. Then something brown and furry smacks into the window inches from his face, causing him to jump back and swear under his breath.

Mickey isn’t about to back down, though. He recovers quickly, grabs the bottom of the window and shoves the panel up, the old wood rattling in its frame. Mickey sticks his head out, glares into the night, and that’s when he sees it: a goddamn bat, flitting around drunkenly overhead. Apparently catching sight of the open window, it plummets down towards the ground and then changes direction at the last minute, coming straight for Mickey’s face.

‘Shit!’ he exclaims, quickly ducking his head back inside. But instead of flying in through the window, the bat seems to hit an invisible wall. It rebounds, squeaking madly, and Mickey puts two and two together. For a moment he’s really tempted to just slam the window shut and go back to bed, but the stupid thing will probably just keep on making a racket. It’ll probably wake everyone up, and then Mickey will have to deal with that shit and he’ll never get back to sleep.

After letting loose a string of curses, Mickey hisses, ‘Get _in_ here, for fuck’s sake.’

He steps back again and half a second later the bat comes careening in, glancing off the window frame clumsily. It seems a whole lot bigger when it’s inside, its leathery wings brushing horribly against Mickey’s bare arms. He catches a glimpse of its stupid ugly squashed-in face and big ears before it starts flying in crazy circles around the dusty lightbulb overhead.

Mickey grits his teeth, drags a blanket off a chair, waits carefully for his moment and then throws it over the bat like a net, quickly dragging it down onto the bed. Then, like a magic trick, the thing under the blanket isn’t small and squeaky any more. It’s human-sized, and thrashing violently. Mickey quickly straddles it, rips the blanket off its head, and smacks his hand down hard over its mouth. He groans when he recognizes the wide-eyed vampire he’s sitting on.

‘You got a goddamn death wish, Gallagher?’ Mickey snarls. ‘I oughta fucking stake you right now!’

Gallagher’s mouth is moving like he’s trying to say something, so Mickey removes his hand. ‘There are-’ the vampire starts explaining loudly, but a glare from Mickey prompts him to drop his voice to a whisper. ‘There are these guys following me. They saw me drinking some guy’s blood and now they won’t stop following me and they shot me with something and I transformed to try and get rid of it but it’s still stuck…’

He rolls over a little and gestures at his back. Mickey spots a little dart with a flashing light in it sticking out of the vampire’s shoulder and curses. It’s a goddamn tracker, and he’s seen one like it before. Without bothering to offer a warning, he grabs it and rips it out of Gallagher’s back, jumps off the vampire, winds up, and throws the offending device out of the open window. It goes pretty far.

No sooner has he done so than Mickey hears another banging noise - this one at the front door. He glances at Ian, who is now sitting up and looking very anxious, his fangs bared and his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress tightly.

Neither one of them breathes for a few seconds, though in Ian’s case that’s probably just business as usual. Then the knocking at the door starts up again, louder this time, like someone’s really hammering on it with their fist. Mickey hears movement from within the house, the muffled sound of his dad swearing, and then the heavy tread of Terry Milkovich stomping down the hall.

Gesturing impatiently at Ian to keep quiet, Mickey heads to his bedroom door, takes a moment to conjure up a fake yawn, then walks into the den just as Terry rips the front door open, a gun in his hand.

‘Get the fuck off my porch before I goddamn shoot you!’ Terry yells, the syllables slurring together. He drank a lot of booze the night before. Every night, really.

Mickey rounds the corner and sees a man and a woman in dark uniforms standing in the doorway, looking only a little intimidated. The woman speaks first.

‘Sorry to wake you sir,’ she says smoothly. ‘We’re with Animal Care and Control. We just want to make sure everyone in here is safe. We have reports of an aggressive bat in this area, trying to get into people’s homes.’

‘A _what?_ ’ Terry demands, baffled, his threat briefly forgotten.

‘A bat, sir. They can be quite dangerous to humans.’

‘Not what I heard,’ Mickey pipes up.

The animal control assholes spot him at last and, in a practiced move, the guy switches on his flashlight and swipes the beam of light across Mickey’s face. The officer’s lip curls, almost imperceptibly.

‘Saw a Discovery Channel show,’ Mickey continues brashly. ‘Said bats don’t attack humans.’

‘They carry diseases,’ the female officer says in an ugly tone, looking at Mickey like he's a sentient dog turd.

‘There’s no fuckin’ bats in here,’ Terry snaps. He raises his gun, shoves it in the male officer’s face. ‘Get the fuck off my porch. Won’t tell you again.’

The guy swallows hard, but holds his composure. ‘Right. We’ll be on our way.’ His gaze flicks back to Mickey and he adds coldly, ‘We’ll be keeping an eye on things.’

Mickey flips him off with a sneer, then turns and goes back to his bedroom.

The window is open and Ian is nowhere to be seen, but Mickey isn’t a fucking idiot. He sniffs the air, follows that chilly vampire scent to his closet, and opens it up to find the bat hanging upside-down from the clothes rail.

‘Oh no you don’t. Get the fuck out.’

The bat lets go of the rail, flaps to the floor, and then stands up in the form of a red-haired teenage boy. ‘But what if they’re waiting for me?’ he whines.

‘I could give a shit. Get out.’

‘It’s almost morning!’

Mickey covers his face with his hands to muffle his growl of frustration. He just wants to get some fucking sleep, _god,_ he doesn’t need this shit. ‘You are the worst fucking vampire ever,’ he hisses viciously at Ian. ‘You led monster hunters to my house. My _house._ They have my fucking address now. I shoulda never pulled you out of that grave, shoulda let you wander into a fucking sunbeam and burn.’

Ian finally looks admonished, hanging his head miserably. He looks better than the night they met, a few weeks ago. He’s clean, for one thing. He’s wearing tight jeans and a tank top and this super faggy eyeliner that makes his eyes look bigger than they really are. His red hair and orange freckles are a shocking contrast to the unnatural whiteness of his skin. Mickey would never admit it out loud, but vampire looks good on him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ian says at last, in a small voice. ‘I didn’t know where else to go.’

Mickey groans in disgust, goes and sits down on the end of his bed, his shoulders hunched over. He just wants to sleep. ‘What about, like, other vampires? Did you go to the bar like I told you?’

‘Yeah. They helped me get set up with a mausoleum and a coffin and stuff. But…’ Ian pulls a face. ‘I hate them. They’re so _old_. And they’re total snobs. Whenever I ask them a question they always laugh at me before they answer. And they dress in black the whole time and they always give me dirty looks when I show up in jeans and _ugh_.’ He flops down dramatically onto the bed, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling.

Mickey considers kicking the vampire onto the floor, but his anger eases a little and for some reason he says, ‘I hate other werewolves.’

Ian looks up at him, his expression curious.

‘They’re dicks,’ Mickey explains. ‘Like… rich fucking stuck-up frat boys who call each other _bro_. They even have matching jackets. It’s so fucking gay.’

There’s a beat of silence. Then Ian offers, ‘Vampires don’t like werewolves either. I told them about you - not by name,’ he adds hurriedly, when he sees Mickey’s expression. ‘Just told them a werewolf helped me on my first night. And they just laughed and laughed and said all kinds of shit. Like, how werewolves piss on everything on the full moon…’

‘True.’

‘...And how they smell really bad, like wet dog. But you don’t smell bad,’ Ian says pensively. ‘And I always liked dogs.’

They sit there on the bed for a while, not saying anything. Mickey notices the bottom edge of the sky getting brighter out of his window. The sun’s coming up.

‘I don’t got a coffin,’ he says at last. ‘My dad and my uncles usually just throw bodies in the river, or bury ‘em. But you can sleep in the closet, if you want.’

Ian sits up, his smile big and goofy with the fangs. ‘Really?’

‘One night, that’s it. Get in there before I change my mind. And hey…’ Mickey gets up, crosses the room, opens his weapons drawer and rummages through it until he finds what he’s looking for: an old table leg with one end sharpened to a point. He grips it tightly, turns around and shows it to Ian. ‘I’m gonna be sleeping with this under my pillow. You even think about biting me, you’re dust. You hear me?’

Ian nods vigorously. He hesitates, then approaches Mickey with obvious intent.

‘I’ll also fucking stake you if you try to hug me,’ Mickey warns, giving his best death glare.

Ian backs off, but he’s still smiling. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Thanks, Mick.’

Before Mickey can come up with an insult, Ian is a bat again, flapping into the closet and snagging the rail with his claws, wrapping his wings around his small, furry body. He hangs there, rocking himself gently to sleep, and Mickey watches him for a moment before shutting the closet door and going back to bed.


	3. Bar Snacks

They start hanging out. Not, like, every day. Not even every week. But sometimes Mickey will be out at night and he’ll catch Ian’s scent and amble along until he finds the vampire hanging out in his cemetery or prowling for victims. A couple of times he’s stumbled across Ian mid-feast and walked away quickly, because Mickey has a strong stomach but a vampire feeding frenzy is fucking gross - all rigid, twitching limbs and horrible noises. Recently Mickey watched a vampire movie where the vampire drank from this girl’s wrist all delicate-like and stopped after a few sips to make sure he didn’t hurt her, and Mandy had to kick Mickey to get him to stop laughing because, like... _no._

Most of the time, though, Ian seems pretty pleased to see him. He comes along on full moons, too, and they shoot the shit while Mickey waits to transform, and when it happens Ian stashes his clothes for him. Mickey doesn’t remember much from the full moon nights, but he does have a vague impression of seeing a small shape flitting around overhead while he hunts.

So anyway, it’s about a week after the last full moon and Mickey’s digestive system has finally recovered, so he decides he’s going to go and get a nice steak from Under-Molly’s (the fucking genius name for the monster bar under Molly’s). While he’s walking over there he hears the flap of wings in the darkness and then Ian’s at his side, stumbling from a clumsy transformation-landing combo move but trying to play it cool.

‘Hey, Mick,’ the vampire says, ruffling a hand through his ginger hair to try and straighten it out. His freckles are all but gone now - lack of sunlight will do that to a guy - but otherwise he hasn’t changed much. He's not wearing his eyeliner and he’s in normal clothes, so Mickey takes a long drag from his cigarette, breathes out the smoke and comments:

‘Not working tonight?’

‘Nah, traded my shift. Needed a break.’ Ian works as a go-go dancer in this gay club uptown and makes a fucking mint doing it. He uses his glamor, which sounds super gay but Ian refuses to just call it hypnotism. Whatever it is, it’s for sure an effective way of getting old queens to shove their bills down his shorts.

They head down the alleyway that leads to Under-Molly’s, and Mickey nods stiffly at a couple of werewolves who are smoking outside. They lift their chins briefly in greeting, and then look at Ian with curious eyes. Mickey tenses up a little.

‘What’s up?’ Ian asks, as they head down the steps.

Mickey scratches his eyebrow. ‘Uh, vamps and werewolves hanging out is not really… Like, it’s not forbidden but it’s…’ He casts around for the right simile. ‘It’s like two guys holding hands in public. Weird, you know? And not everyone is cool about it.’ He raps his knuckles on the door and calls out, ‘Ay, some of us are gettin’ old out here!’

There’s a pause, then a metal panel slides back and a pair of eyes with blood-red irises peer out through the viewing slot. Ian pulls his upper lip back to show his fangs, while Mickey just stands there and raises his eyebrows pointedly. The eyes are replaced by a nose, which sniffs the air deeply. Then the panel clangs shut again and the door opens, the demon bouncer stepping aside to let them in.

‘How often do I come here, Vic?’ Mickey asks. ‘And you still gotta do the whole song and dance before you let me in?’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ the demon explains coolly. ‘We got a new bartender now. Human. If you kill him, you’re barred.’

To drive home the warning, Vic points at the Wall of Shame - basically a noticeboard with polaroids of all the monsters that’ve been barred from Under-Molly’s. For the things that don’t show up in photos, like vampires, there are hilariously crude drawings of them instead.

‘No eating the help, got it,’ Mickey says with a mock-salute. Then he catches sight of the new bartender that Vic mentioned and grins widely, spreading his arms in greeting. ‘Yo, ponytail!’ he yells.

Kev looks up from the drink he was pouring and gapes, leaving the tap running until beer foams over the top. ‘Fuck!’ he exclaims. ‘Is that Mickey? And Ian Gallagher! Holy shit, I thought you were dead, man!’

‘Sort of,’ Ian replies, showing off his fangs again as he walks forward and clasps Kev’s hand in greeting.

‘And you’re, what…?’ Kev asks, looking over at Mickey with a furrowed brow.

‘Werewolf,’ Mickey says shortly. ‘You work in this shithole now?’

‘Yeah, the Alibi’s not doing so great so I’m moonlighting to pay the bills. Hey,’ Kev grins at Mickey. ‘ _Moonlighting_.’

Mickey just shakes his head, stony-faced.

‘Since when does Under-Molly’s have human bartenders?’ Ian asks. ‘What are you, like, a diversity hire?’

Kev shrugs, unoffended. ‘Last bartender was a vampire, but they caught him stealing drinks. So I guess they wanted someone who wasn’t interested in most of the stuff they serve here. Vee has these witch-y connections, so she knew about all this…’ He gestures vaguely at Under-Molly’s clientele. ‘And she hooked me up.’

‘You aren’t scared?’ Ian inquires curiously.

‘Nah, I’m good. Got precautions…’ Kev tugs on a silver chain around his neck, pulling it up to reveal a crucifix, and instantly Ian cringes away, holding up his hands in front of his face and hissing. A few nearby creatures look around at the commotion - including a table full of bored-looking, black-clad vampires.

Mickey reaches over the bar and shoves Kev angrily. ‘Put it away, asshole!’

‘Sorry, sorry!’ Kev says, tucking the crucifix back inside his shirt. ‘Sorry, Ian!’ he adds, as Ian recollects himself and steps up to the bar again.

‘No biggie,’ Ian says, though his voice is shaking a little.

Kev still looks guilty. ‘Look, I’ll buy your first drink. What’ll you have?’

‘Oh, you know,’ Ian replies. ‘The usual.’

‘I’ll take a beer,' Mickey adds. 'And a steak. Rare, with fries.’

Kev nods, scribbles the order down on a pad, tears off the bit of paper and walks to the back of the bar, where there’s a hatch with flickering orange light and smoke curling out from under it. ‘Steak, bloody, fries on the side,’ he calls, sliding the hatch up a little way and holding the paper in front of it. Something snatches it out of his hand, too fast even for Mickey’s eyes to see, and then a pair of plates are shoved out.

Kev picks them up, peers at them, and then carries them over to the bar, yelling, ‘Two orders of brains, no sides!’ At first it seems like there’s no response, and Kev frowns and shouts again, louder, ‘TWO ORDERS OF - oh sorry, man. Take your time.’

The zombie nods at him - maybe, it’s kind of hard to tell with all the lurching - as it continues its slow, difficult journey up to the bar. It’s clearly struggling, and as Mickey watches in a state of bored amusement, Ian gets up off his barstool and grabs both the plates.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘I’ll get those for ya.’ He carries them over to the table, where another zombie - her hair still in curlers like she died getting ready for bed - pats his hand heavily with her decaying fingers and tells him he’s a good boy. At least, that’s what it sounds like. Again, kinda hard to tell with zombies.

‘So,’ Kev says, when Ian returns, sliding a glass filled with thick, crimson blood over to him. ‘Your family know you’re still around? They were just devastated when you died, man.’

Ian stares into the glass sadly. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘I tried telling Lip - showed up outside his window and tried to explain. But he was really freaked out.’

Kev frowns. ‘Isn’t his room on the third floor?’

‘Yeah, that probably didn’t help.’ Ian admits. ‘Anyway, in the end I just used glamor to make him forget. I think it’s better that way. You know, they can all move on.’

He sounds so blue that for a moment Mickey gets a weird urge to put his arm around Ian comfortingly. Instead, he just takes a long swig of his beer and then lights up a fresh cigarette, puffing on it to make sure it’s lit, before passing it over to Ian. The vampire nods at him gratefully and takes a deep drag.

After a while the chef throws Mickey’s steak out through the hatch and they go and find a table in the corner to eat at. Well, for Mickey to eat at and Ian to look around at the decor. The conversation stops while Mickey devours his steak, tearing it with his teeth, the juice dripping down his chin. It’s gone in about five minutes, and then Mickey starts slowly eating his fries. He doesn’t offer one to Ian. Ian can’t digest fries any more.

‘What…’ Ian says at last, but stops abruptly as the word comes out in a cloud of smoke.

Mickey grins. ‘Forget to breathe out again?’ Ian last took a drag of the cigarette about five minutes ago, but he doesn't breathe automatically any more and it makes him pretty shitty at smoking.

Ian waves the fug away. The dim orange light of the bar lends a bit of color to his cheeks, makes him look almost normal. Whoever heard of a vampire with ginger hair and green eyes, anyway?

Before Ian can finish whatever he was about to say, Kev shows up at their table. He looks nervous. ‘Here,’ he says, and he holds out an open can of dog food. ‘Compliments of the table over there.’

Mickey looks in the direction that Kev indicated, and sees the vampires smirking over at them. One of them does a sarcastic little mock-bow. Mickey sees Ian tense up out of the corner of his eye.

‘Great,’ Mickey proclaims coolly, taking the pungent can from Kev’s hand and standing up. ‘I’ll go over and say thanks.’

Kev nods, acting all casual, but as Mickey goes past he leans in and mutters pleadingly, ‘They just replaced half the furniture in here, Mickey. Go easy?’

‘Oh, you know me,’ Mickey replies, not at all reassuringly.

He arrives at the vampires’ table, Ian close on his heels with the smell of anxiety rolling off him. Mickey sees the undead creatures wrinkle their noses in an exaggerated way, but he just grins broadly.

‘Nice of you to buy me dinner.’

A female vampire, who looks around forty but is probably centuries older, leans back in her chair and holds Mickey’s gaze with grim amusement as she says, ‘Least we can do to say thank you for keeping our boy company.’ She looks at Ian and asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm, ‘How’s the _apartment_ treating you?’

Yeah, these assholes think it’s the funniest shit in the world that Ian moved out of the dusty old mausoleum they found for him and rented a basement apartment, blacking out all the windows and hanging a big curtain up in front of his coffin just to be safe. Apparently living in a real house - one that doesn’t fall into the extremes of tomb or castle - is really uncool if you’re a vampire.

‘It’s fine,’ Ian answers, sounding surprisingly calm. ‘Roomy.’

The vampires laugh, and not in a nice way. Then the female points a long nail at the can of dog food in Mickey’s hand. ‘Aren’t you going to eat that?’

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey can see Kev rubbing the same spot on the bar over and over with his cloth, pretending not to stare at them. The room has gone kind of quiet.

But Mickey just smiles. Then he tips his head back and opens his mouth wide, and starts pouring the dog food in - thick chunks of meat in something that the label probably tries to get away with calling gravy. He takes a break to chew and swallow, then reaches into the can with his fingers and scoops out chunks of doggy chow, holding the female vampire’s gaze as he shoves it into his mouth.

Ian looks kind of grossed-out, which is pretty fucking rich for someone with an all-blood diet. But Mickey doesn’t care. When there are no chunks left in the can he smacks his lips ostentatiously, wipes a sleeve over his mouth.

‘Good stuff,’ he says. ‘Get me the chicken one next time, though.’ And with that he tosses the can up in the air. It lands with a loud clatter on the vampires’ table and he hears them hissing angrily as the leftover juice spatters their fancy black clothes, but by that point Mickey’s back is turned and he’s already walking away.

He sits back down at their table, one arm slung over the back of the chair, his knees spread confidently. Ian takes a seat opposite him and stares at Mickey, looking shocked but also pretty impressed. Mickey winks at him and begins sucking his fingers clean, one-by-one. Gradually, the volume in the bar returns to normal as everyone resumes their conversations.

‘You’re right,’ Mickey says at last, wiping his saliva-slick hand on his shirt. ‘Those guys are assholes. You’re better off sticking with me.’


	4. Stake Out

It happens like this.

They’ve been out at the bar and Mickey’s had a bit too much to drink - not really unusual, but for some reason Ian insists on making sure he gets home OK. Mickey mocks him for it the whole way back, swaggering loosely and talking too loud while Ian just ducks his head and grins shyly. When Mickey finally manages to get his front door open, Ian kind of just stands there on the stoop looking uncertain, so Mickey invites him in.

He’s drunk, but he’s not really sleepy, so he switches on the TV in his room and finds this old black-and-white monster movie that’s playing. Mickey sprawls out on the bed like a starfish, cracks open another beer, and Ian sits cross-legged about 3 feet off the ground, his face dimming and brightening in the light of the TV.

Mickey tries to concentrate on the movie, but it’s hard to be enthralled by fictional monsters when there’s a real-life one levitating right next to you. So he asks, ‘That shit tire you out?’

‘Huh?’ Ian says, then looks down at the ground. ‘Oh. Kind of. I mean, it’s easy, but if I do it too long it starts to…’ He pauses, apparently struggling to find the right word. ‘Ache?’

Mickey doesn’t really get it, but he’s drunk, so he nods loosely. ‘You can sit on the bed if you want. I don’t give a shit.’

‘OK.’ Ian uncrosses his legs, does a little backwards flip in the air, showing off. Mickey rolls his eyes, though secretly he’s kind of jealous because flying looks fucking fun as hell. Once he’s done with the Cirque du Soleil shit, Ian floats over and lands gently on the bed, slinging one arm behind his head, scratching his stomach lazily.

He hasn’t told Ian this, but werewolves trash-talk vampires a lot. Most of it is pretty accurate - at least, from what Mickey’s seen of the rest of Ian’s lot: the werewolves say that they’re snooty fucking assholes who think they’re smart because they’ve been around for a long time, but are really just stupid people in nice clothes. They say that vampires are creepy, that they’re stalkers and rapists. They say that vampires stink like rotting corpses because of all the time they spend in mausoleums.

That last part might be true of other vampires, but Ian doesn’t smell like corpses. Maybe it’s because he lives in an apartment, and takes baths (he doesn’t really need to, but he says he likes the warmth). Anyway, Ian smells fine. Kind of cold and odd, but not bad. He’s nicer than the other vampires, too. More human, less stuck-up. Though that’s probably because he’s just a baby. Give it a few hundred years and Ian will probably be a total prick as well. The thought makes Mickey kind of sad.

On the TV, some silly broad is holding up her hands and shrieking as the monster descends upon her. Then the hero runs in, his shirt all ripped open, waves a burning branch at it, yells, “Back, you foul beast!”

Mickey lets out an unattractive snort of laughter, and Ian echoes it with a childish giggle. Mickey elbows him in the ribs and puts on a deep voice and says, ‘Back, you foul beast!’

Ian splays his hand over the side of Mickey’s head and gives it a playful shove. ‘Back, _you_ foul beast.’

This is the most hilarious game in the world to someone as drunk as Mickey is. He rears up, bracing himself on one hand, while raising the other in a clenched fist, mock-threatening Ian. ‘Nuh-uh. Back, _you_ foul beast!’

And that’s when everything goes wrong, real fast.

Ian goes to retaliate, jumping on top of Mickey, pinning him down, the words “Back, you foul beast!’ already forming on his lips. But then his face drops, suddenly serious, and Mickey becomes aware that he’s helplessly pinned to the bed underneath a blood-sucking vampire, and all the things the other werewolves said come flooding back into his drunken brain at once. Ian is staring down at him, and Mickey realizes with a panic that the vampire is staring at his neck, and Ian looks so fucking hungry, and then suddenly his face is getting closer and Mickey is reaching under his pillow, his fingers scrabbling desperately in search of…

Ian lets out a long shriek - high-pitched and furious, not human. He falls off Mickey, topples off the bed, lands heavily on the floor. He wraps his pale fingers around the stake that’s buried in his chest like he’s trying to figure out what the hell it is, then suddenly his head whips up and the whites of his eyes are red and raging, his white skin gone almost grey, his fang-filled mouth dropped open unnaturally wide as he hisses like an angry cat.

There’s no way Mickey can beat a vampire in a fight, not this far from the full moon. So he does the only thing he can think of.

‘Get the fuck out,’ he commands shakily.

The invitation rescinded, invisible forces drag Ian’s body away and across the floor, towards the open window. The stake catches against the floor, and Mickey hears the horrible sound of it levering two of Ian’s ribs apart and breaking one of them. Then the vampire slithers out of the window and vanishes into the night.

About half a second later, the bedroom door bursts open and Mickey nearly jumps out of his skin. Then he ducks, because Terry is hurling an empty whiskey bottle at his head. It bounces off the wall, leaving a dent, and lands on the floor with a _clonk_.

‘Turn that shit down!’ Mickey’s dad growls drunkenly, jabbing a finger at the TV. WIth a shaking hand, Mickey grabs the remote, fumbles until he finds the power button, turns the TV off. Terry leaves, slams the door behind him, leaving Mickey on the bed with his heart going a million miles a minute from all the adrenaline and trying to figure out how the fuck everything went south so fast.

-

Mickey doesn’t see Ian for a couple of weeks after that. He knows the stake didn’t kill him, because he catches Ian’s scent around town a couple of times, but he doesn’t try to follow it. Honestly, though he’d rather chew razor blades than admit it, he’s still kind of scared. Sure, he and Ian had a kind of all-monsters-together friendship going on, but the truth is that even though Mickey could rip Ian into little pieces on the full moon, for the rest of the month he’s pretty much just another potential snack on the vampire menu.

Maybe that’s why when Mickey does see Ian again, on a full moon night, he feels confident enough to confront him. He’s heading down to his usual transformation spot when he catches Ian’s scent, and follows it into the cemetery.

Ian is sitting on his headstone, his shoulders hunched over miserably. It’s only a small marker, about three feet high - probably all that the Gallaghers could afford - but it’s kind of nice. Polished grey stone, with black letters embossed into it with Ian’s full name (Clayton, huh?), and the year he was born and the year he died (too fucking young), and “Beloved Brother and Son.” That last part seems like kind of a stretch, because Mama Gallagher walked out on the family and Mickey’s never heard Frank call any of his kids “beloved,” but maybe “Beloved Brother, Shame About the Parents” wouldn’t fit on the gravestone.

Ian must know he’s there, but he doesn’t look up. Mickey scratches the back of his head awkwardly and says, ‘Yo.’

He doesn’t get a response. Ian just carries on staring at the ground, rubbing the edge of his gravestone with his thumb.

‘Y’alright?’ Mickey ventures. He pats his own chest to indicate that he’s talking about the staking. ‘Lucky for you I got shitty aim when I’m drunk, huh?’

Still no response, and now Mickey stops feeling bad and starts feeling pissed off because seriously? The fucking silent treatment? God, Ian is such a goddamn teenager, and with his transformation this close Mickey doesn’t have the patience to deal with this sulky bullshit. He can practically feel his fur sprouting and his fangs growing.

‘Whatever, man, go fuck yourself,’ he tosses brashly in Ian’s direction, already walking away. When he gets the edge of the cemetery he glances back, sees Ian’s sad silhouette in the dim light, still sitting on his gravestone. Mickey feels a dull pang of regret, but fifteen minutes later it’s washed away in the fever and hunger of the full moon.

He doesn’t see Ian again the rest of the month. He avoids the cemetery, goes the other way when he catches Ian’s scent. Mickey was a lone wolf before Ian came along and in theory he should be able to deal with being a lone wolf again, but it’s different now. “Lone” becomes “lonely,” and Mickey starts to feel this ache like he lost something vital - an organ, or a limb.

So one night, when Mickey is heading to Under-Molly’s to drown his sorrows, he notices the werewolves smoking outside again, and this time he stops. He steels himself. He buries his disgust and discomfort down deep and saunters over to them, lifts his chin in acknowledgement and says, ‘’Sup, bro?’

-

Having a pack makes things better, if only because it’s too goddamn loud all the time for Mickey’s thoughts to overwhelm him. The guys (it’s all guys - the female werewolves hang out in their own pack, rolling their eyes and turning their heads away disdainfully whenever the males come over to flirt with them) drink a lot and do stupid dares and make dubious boasts and are basically douchebags, but at least Mickey has someone to drink with now. He’s no longer relegated to his crappy little patch of woods on the full moon - instead he runs with the pack, hunts with the pack, takes on their scent and learns their pack howl. One night they run into the female pack and there’s a mating frenzy, so Mickey finds the scrawniest, ugliest she-wolf in the pack and half-heartedly ruts her until the moon goes down.

After he joins the wolf pack he sees Ian in Under-Molly’s a couple of times. The first time, Ian is sitting at a table with the other vampires (sort of - it’s obvious they didn’t bother to make room for him so his chair is kind of awkwardly placed outside their circle), and when he sees Mickey come in with the pack he stares for a moment, looking surprised and a little hurt. Then he quickly looks back down into his glass of blood and they don’t make eye contact again.

And Mickey thinks, OK, maybe this is just how it is. Maybe they were both in their dumb rebellious teen phases of monsterdom, hanging out together because it was daring and taboo, but now they’ve grown up and have accepted why things are the way they are. Vampires and werewolves sticking to their own kind is like paying taxes or rent or getting a job - you do it because everyone does it, and eventually it just seems normal.

Not that Mickey has ever paid taxes.

Ian isn’t like Mickey, though. He doesn’t start hanging out with the vampires on the reg. After a while Mickey just stops seeing him, stops even smelling him, and he wonders if Ian has changed his hunting grounds. Maybe even moved on, out of Chicago. So one night it’s Mickey’s turn to buy a round for the pack, and he asks Kev as casually as he can manage, ‘You seen Gallagher?’

‘Ian?’ Kev shrugs. ‘He comes in sometimes. Usually right before closing time, after the others-’ He jerks his head at the vampires, ‘-have gone back to their coffins.’ He sighs. ‘Cuts it kinda close to sunrise. Poor kid.’

Mickey just grunts quietly, doesn’t look Kev in the eye. But Kev carries on talking anyway.

‘It’s hard, you know? Seeing Fiona and Lip and the kids. Not being able to tell them he’s still around. They’re all so sad.’ Kev moves a pint of beer up the bar, starts pouring another. Buying a round for the wolf pack is fucking expensive. ‘Weren’t you guys friends?’

‘Huh?’

‘You and Ian. What happened?’

Mickey pulls a face. ‘Nothing happened. Why would I wanna hang around with a fuckin’ blood-sucker?’ The words feel heavy and toxic in his mouth.

Kev shoots him a disapproving look. ‘Ian’s cool. Apart from the killing people thing, I mean. But he’s never killed anyone I know.’

‘Since when do you like vampires so much, Kev?’ Mickey spits.

‘I dunno, since when do you like hanging out with Alpha Sigma Roomba?’ Kev gestures at the wolf pack, who are loudly chanting a college drinking song while the pack leader chugs his beer.

‘Roomba’s a fuckin’ vacuum cleaner, moron,’ Mickey retorts, ignoring the question.

The pack stays out pretty late, but most of them have classes the next day so eventually they start weaving their way home. Mickey stays, though. He stays until midnight, until long after midnight, until all the other werewolves have left. He doesn’t want to admit that he’s waiting, but he is.

Finally, a couple of hours before dawn, there’s a knock at the door. Vic wanders over to it, pulls back the metal slide, and gives a grunt of approval before opening it. Mickey doesn’t look up, but he can see pale skin and a shock of orange hair out of the corner of his eye, and he tightens his grip on his glass fractionally.

Ian sits down at the opposite end of the bar from Mickey and orders his usual drink. He doesn’t look over. Kev tries to make conversation with him, but Mickey can hear Ian giving short, one-word answers, and soon Kev leaves him alone.

Mickey doesn’t order any more drinks, but he also doesn’t leave, and Ian doesn’t either. It’s getting really fucking late. Surreptitiously, Mickey pulls out his phone and looks up sunrise times, and he doesn’t like what he sees. But still, Ian doesn’t leave. When Mickey glances over, the vampire is slumped down on the bar, his head resting on his folded arms.

They’re the last two patrons left when Vic yells, ‘Alright, we’re closing. Move out.’

Mickey looks up sharply, checks the time on his phone. ‘It’s nearly sunrise,’ he says stupidly.

Vic rolls his eyes, grabs Mickey’s arm and starts dragging him to the door. ‘That’s why we’re closing.’ He grabs Ian on the way as well, drags him off his bar stool by the scruff of his neck.

‘You can’t kick him out now, he’ll burn!’ Mickey protests.

‘Not my problem.’

‘Kev!’

But it’s hopeless. Kev’s just a bartender, and it’s not like he can beat up a demon. Vic pulls open the heavy metal door, throws Ian out first and then shoves Mickey after him, slams the door behind them.

‘Fuck!’ Mickey curses, dusting himself off. He looks over and sees Ian curled up on the ground, not even trying to get up. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, Ian,’ Mickey mutters, looking desperately up at the sky. It’s pretty light already. He reaches down, grabs Ian’s shoulder, shakes him.

‘Leave me alone,’ Ian mumbles.

‘You’re gonna fry, dumbass!’ No response. Mickey grits his teeth, then picks Ian up easily and throws him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. He has no idea what to do now, though, other than maybe find a sewer to throw Ian into.

‘Mickey!’

He looks around and there - like a dumb, pony-tailed angel - is Kev, standing in front of his car, which is parked in the alley with the trunk open. Mickey nearly sags with relief, then staggers over and unceremoniously dumps Ian in the trunk.

‘I figured I’d need to give him a ride sooner or later,’ Kev explains, as they’re driving over to Ian’s apartment. ‘He just kept staying at the bar closer and closer to closing time.’

Mickey swallows hard, manages to unstick his throat. ‘Thanks,’ he says shortly.

Getting Ian into his apartment is tricky, because the sun is up by the time they get there. Ian is weaker during the daytime, and he can’t really help, so in the end Kev takes off his coat and holds it over the trunk to create shade, and Mickey opens it and quickly throws his own coat over Ian, bundles him up, then digs out Ian’s keys and throws them to Kev. Then Kev gets the door open, and Mickey takes a deep breath, bundles Ian up in his arms, and makes a run for it.

It’s not perfect. The coat isn’t big enough to cover all of Ian’s skin, and there’s a horrible sizzling noise and a wounded cry from Ian that makes Mickey cringe. But then they’re inside and Mickey is carrying Ian over to his coffin, Kev lifting the lid so he can tip the vampire into it. Ian feebly straightens out, folds his hands over his chest, and Kev shuts the lid.

They both just lean against the wall for a moment, breathing heavily.

‘You need a ride home?’ Kev says, when he’s recovered.

Mickey hesitates. ‘Nah, I’m gonna… stick around for a bit.’ He doesn’t know why. Ian’s going to be asleep til nightfall anyway. But it doesn’t feel right to just leave him.

Kev goes to leave, but when he’s at the door he hesitates, looks back. ‘I know you’re all, like, running with the cool kids now but… could you talk to him? See if you can get him to play it safe? I don’t wanna be doing this every night.’

Mickey looks away, gives a small nod. ‘Sure. I’ll try.’

Then Kev is gone, and it’s just Mickey left in this damp, blacked-out basement, with Ian passed out in his coffin. Mickey leans back against the wall, closes his eyes, and wonders when the hell his life got this weird.

-

He doesn’t, like, hold a vigil over Ian’s coffin or anything. That would be fucking sad. Mickey sticks around for a little bit, then goes out to get something to eat, get some sleep, change his clothes. He takes Ian’s keys, though, and lets himself back in just before sunset. He’s sitting on the sagging couch, messing around on his phone, when the coffin lid slowly creaks open.

Mickey looks up to find out that, yes, vampires do get bed-head. Or coffin-head. Whatever. ‘Mornin’, Cinderella,’ he says loudly.

Ian winces as he sits up. ‘You mean Sleeping Beauty?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

Ian floats out of the coffin, lands on his feet a little unsteadily, hisses in pain as he inspects the reddened, burned patches on his arms. He wanders over to a mini-fridge in the corner of the room, pulls out a plastic bottle full of blood, and eagerly chugs the whole thing. While he’s drinking, the burns heal up, leaving behind unmarred white skin.

Mickey looks down at his feet. ‘You gotta be careful,’ he says quietly. ‘If Kev hadn’t been there… if _I_ hadn’t been there...’

‘Why _were_ you there?’ Ian demands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, glaring over at the couch.

‘Hey, I was drinking there before you were, bitch.’

‘Yeah, but you’re usually out of there by one, two at the latest.’

‘How do you know that? You stalking me?’

If Ian could blush, he probably would have. He averts his gaze, leans down to the mini-fridge again, and this time he pulls out a can of beer. Mickey’s favorite. He throws it over and Mickey catches it easily, examines it.

‘Why do you have this?’ he asks. ‘You can’t drink it.’

‘It’s for guests.’

Mickey snickers at the idea of Ian having guests. ‘Look at you, Martha Stewart.’ He cracks open the beer, takes a swig.

There isn’t a lot of furniture in the apartment, so Ian sits down on what looks like a plastic lawn chair. When Mickey is taking his second swig of beer, Ian surprises him by looking over and asking directly, ‘Why did you help me?’

Mickey congratulates himself on not choking as he slowly swallows and lowers the can. ‘Fuck kinda question is that?’

‘You don’t talk to me for months…’

‘You were the one who stopped talking to me, fucker!’

‘You fucking staked me!’

‘You tried to fucking bite me!’

‘You-’ But Ian apparently doesn’t have a comeback this time. He stops abruptly, looking at Mickey with a mixture of shock and confusion, followed by slow realization. ‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, “oh!”’ Mickey snaps. He chugs the rest of his beer, belches loudly, crushes the can in his hand, and tosses it across the room. He needs to get the fuck out of here, he doesn’t even know why he came back…

‘I wasn’t trying to bite you.’

It’s said so quietly that at first Mickey wonders if he imagined it until he sees Ian’s face, tight with anxiety and embarrassment.

‘That’s sure what it fucking looked like.’

‘I _wasn’t_ ,’ Ian insists. He picks at a loose thread in his shirt. ‘I was trying to kiss you.’

And just like that, Mickey’s heart is pounding in his chest and he feels a little dizzy and his face feels hot - so hot that he suspects he’s probably gone bright red. ‘You mean, like, kiss of death, that sort of thing?’ he asks in his best attempt at sounding flippant.

Ian smiles, his big goofy vampire smile full of fangs, and Mickey hadn’t realized how much he missed seeing that smile. ‘No,’ Ian says. He stands up, then grabs Mickey’s hand and pulls him to his feet, so they’re face-to-face and Ian’s sharp green eyes and white fangs and slightly bloodstained lips are really close. He seems a bit scared, probably worried that Mickey might try to stake him again, but then he takes Mickey’s other hand like they’re in a goddamn Charles Dickens novel.

‘I like you,’ Ian confesses shyly. And then he leans forward and kisses Mickey on the lips, ever so gently. His mouth is cold and dry, and suddenly Mickey wants more than anything to warm it up. So when Ian sways back, Mickey brings his hand up to the back of Ian’s head, pulls him in again, seizes a cool bottom lip with his hot mouth and keeps it captive, breathing in deep through his nose as he holds the kiss.

It feels right, the same way the moon feels right on Mickey’s fur. It feels right like very little else has, these past few weeks. Against everything he’s been told and everything he’s overheard in the bar, and in spite of the vicious tone Mickey’s heard his dad using when he talks about faggots and fairies and queers, this feels like something that’s supposed to happen.

Maybe it was all true. Maybe they're monsters, and they're doing a monstrous thing. But just now, that doesn't seem like a good enough reason to stop.


	5. Bumping Uglies

Mickey knows that Mandy is about to burst in, but it still makes him jump. She glares around the room, then crosses her arms and demands, ‘Who are you talking to?’

‘You wanna try fuckin’ knocking?’ Mickey yells, launching himself up from the bed and trying to slam the door in her face. But Mandy wedges her foot against it stubbornly, and the bitch is stronger than she looks.

‘I heard you talking to someone!’ she insists. ‘And it’s not the first time. Who was it?’

‘None o’ your business, bitch, now get the fuck out!’ Mickey punctuates this with another hard shove against the door.

‘Who’s in here?’ Mandy peers past Mickey’s shoulder desperately, tries to get another look at the room. She looks angry, but also kind of upset. ‘It sounded like…’

‘Alright, that’s it,’ Mickey snaps. He reaches around the door, roughly grabs Mandy’s nipple through her shirt, pinching it hard between his thumb and forefinger, and twists it viciously. She shrieks in pain and outrage, pulling away, and Mickey takes the opportunity to slam the door shut and lean back against it with all his weight. Mandy hammers on it furiously and yells for a while but Mickey holds fast, breathing heavily, and eventually she gives up and he hears her stomping away to her own room.

Once he’s sure that Mandy is gone and it’s not just a trick, Mickey relaxes and rests his head back against the door. ‘Fuckin’ bitch,’ he pants. ‘I gotta get a goddamn lock for this door.’

Ian crawls up onto the bed, using his wing hooks to gain purchase on the fabric of the comforter. He raises his squashed-in little bat face to look at Mickey, showing off his tiny fangs, and wriggles his petal-shaped nose. He’s obviously nervous about transforming back when another member of Mickey’s psycho family could come bursting through the door at any moment, so Mickey resigns himself to going out tonight.

He pulls on an outer shirt, then a big warm sweater and finally his big coat (it’s fucking freezing outside), and barges out of the house before anyone can ask him any questions. As he walks, he occasionally spots a small shape flapping about overhead. Ian doesn’t like walking around the South Side in his human-shaped body - too many people who might recognize him - but once Mickey gets about ten blocks away the bat flies down and finds purchase on the front of Mickey’s coat, swatting his face with one of its delicate, partly translucent wings in the process. He recoils and wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

‘Watch where you’re swinging those things, asshole,’ Mickey snaps, taking a left into an empty alleyway. He holds a hand up at chest height and Ian hops onto it, his sharp little hooks digging into the skin. Mickey points his index finger and Ian crawls over to it, snags it with his feet, picks his wing hooks out of Mickey’s hand and drops so that he’s hanging upside-down from Mickey’s finger, swaying gently.

It’s hard to tell when he’s in this form, because his mouth is basically grinning all the time, but Mickey suspects that Ian might be laughing at him.

‘Yeah, yuck it up, dickbreath,’ Mickey says, without much heat. The wings still kind of gross him out, but Ian’s fat little bat body is covered in fur that feels incredibly soft to the touch, almost like kitten fur, so Mickey starts absent-mindedly stroking Ian’s belly with the pad of his thumb. The bat closes its eyes and tips its head back, stretching its mouth open even wider.

Then the bat is gone and Ian is there, twining his fingers into Mickey’s, smiling. ‘That feels nice,’ he murmurs against Mickey’s cheek, dropping his other hand to Mickey’s waist like they’re about to start dancing.

‘Oh yeah?’ Mickey bumps Ian’s cold face playfully with his nose. ‘Look at that, the big bad vampire likes belly rubs.’

‘I’d offer to return the favor on the full moon,’ Ian says. ‘But I’m pretty sure you’d bite my arm off.’

‘Won’t know until you try,’ Mickey challenges, but Ian just laughs and kisses him - carefully, like he always does. His fangs aren’t that big, but they’re sharp, and a small slip could do a lot of damage - if not at first, then when Ian smells fresh blood and goes into a feeding frenzy. So he gives Mickey these small, sweet kisses like he’s just sampling his mouth, and it’s always Mickey who presses for more.

They make out for a while in the quiet solitude of the alley, and when Mickey breaks away from Ian’s mouth to kiss his way along Ian’s jawline, he hears a whisper in his ear: ‘You wanna go back to my place?’

And Mickey hesitates - not even for very long - before he says, ‘OK.’ But when he pulls back he can tell that Ian’s picked up on his uncertainty, his lack of enthusiasm, because the vampire’s expression is tinged with sudden self-consciousness, and just a little bit of hurt.

They don’t talk much on the way to Ian’s apartment.

-

Look, it’s not like the sex isn’t good. Ian knows his way around a guy’s body, figured out what Mickey liked and what he didn’t like real fast, and Mickey always comes at least once when they go at it. It’s kind of weird having sex with someone who doesn’t need to breathe - Ian is always real quiet and cool, while Mickey is panting and gasping and sweating all over the place - but the upside is that Ian never gets tired, never needs to take a break. He can fuck like a machine all night long, and doesn’t ever have trouble getting it up and keeping it up.

Mickey asked him about it the first time they banged, how Ian can get hard when he doesn’t even have a heartbeat. Ian just laughed and said, ‘You’ve seen me change into a bat and fly around a million times and never asked questions, but you take one look at my boner and you need a scientific explanation for it?’

Which… OK, yeah, that’s a fair point.

So: nice big dick - check. Knows what to do with it - check. Looks as good naked as he does in clothes - check, _check_. Ian’s body is slender and toned with just a shade of adolescent awkwardness and puppy fat left on it - enough that it’s probably going to make Mickey feel uncomfortable as he gets older and Ian stays the same - and the same cool white color all over. Even his dick is pale, and doesn’t get any darker when he’s hard.

The coldness of his skin took some getting used to, especially the first time Ian fucked Mickey, because _brrrr_. But it’s like getting in a swimming pool: at first it’s awful and you’re all clenched up, but soon your body adjusts and it just feels normal. And it’s nice, in the afterglow, to be spooned by someone without having to elbow them away because you feel like you’re in an oven. So that’s good too. It’s all good.

Except...

Except Ian never comes.

_Never._

Oh, it’s not a performance issue. He stays hard long enough to get Mickey off. Often Ian has to slow things down, has to reach down and grip the base of his dick, wincing as he pulls himself back from the edge. Mickey has offered to finish him off every time they’ve banged - offered him blow jobs and hand jobs, even offered to fuck Ian in case he’s into that - but Ian just shakes his head and smiles and says that he had a good time, that getting Mickey off is enough for him.

It shouldn’t make the sex any worse, but it does. In the moment everything feels fantastic, but afterwards Mickey feels small and miserable. It’s fucking emasculating. Like, shit, he’s never managed to get his boyfriend off, not even once. And Mickey can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s really bad in bed, and Ian’s just too polite to say it. Mickey would do _anything_ to make it better, but Ian won’t tell him what he’s doing wrong.

So that’s why he hesitates, when Ian asks him back to his apartment. Because Mickey is weighing the lust in his belly against the knowledge of how bad he’ll feel after another night of failing to give Ian an orgasm.

But the lust wins. It always does.

-

Ian pulls his shirt over his head, making his hair stick up in the process, and he grins bashfully, looking up at Mickey through his copper-colored lashes. He’s sitting on the bed while Mickey is still trying to struggle out of his billion-and-one layers, because Ian obviously turned the heater on earlier in anticipation of them coming back here and it’s fucking sweltering in the apartment.

‘Here,’ Ian says, unbuckling Mickey’s belt for him while Mickey drags his outer shirt and tank top over his head in a single frustrated move. They separate to tug their jeans and boxers off and then Mickey pounces on Ian, presses him down onto the creaky second-hand mattress, reaches down between them and wraps his hot, sweaty hand around Ian’s cold prick, squeezing and tugging it full hardness and feeling a pathetic little sting of pride at the response. He kind of just wants to keep going, to show Ian how fucking good he is - he _knows_ he is - at giving hand jobs.

But Ian rolls them over with ease, kisses Mickey softly, then turns him onto his stomach and strokes the bare curve of his ass and murmurs, ‘God, I wanna be inside you, Mick.’ And Mickey doesn’t know how to say no to that.

Ian can’t warm the lube in his hands, so he just brushes his mouth over Mickey’s shoulder and makes soft, apologetic noises as Mickey flinches and grimaces at the initial touch of fingers. He reaches back behind him, moves Ian’s hand away and takes over the job of rubbing and coaxing his asshole to relax, until getting a dick in there seems like something that’s possible and not something that's going to rip him in half. While he’s doing that, he sees Ian grab a condom and hears the tear of the packet, the plasticky sound of Ian rolling the condom on.

(Mickey sneaked a look at the condom packet once. They’re the extra thick kind, designed to dull sensation. It had made him irrationally angry - how's he supposed to make Ian come when Ian is sabotaging him every step of the way?)

When he’s as ready as he’s ever gonna be, Mickey takes his hand away and Ian moves in quickly. The head of his dick is shockingly cold against Mickey’s warmed skin, and he lets out an involuntary hiss of discomfort, which prompts Ian to press his forehead against the back of Mickey’s head and mutter, ‘Sorry, sorry…’ close to his ear.

‘It’s fine,’ Mickey groans. ‘Just fucking do it, push…’ And then he doesn’t have any air left to speak with because Ian is shoving inside him, that huge fucking dick riding Mickey’s sweet spot, and despite his earlier lack of enthusiasm Mickey lasts all of thirty seconds before he’s wheezing Ian’s name and his balls are drawn tight and shooting come all over Mickey’s hand and Ian’s sheets.

If Mickey’s face wasn’t already bright red from the exertion, humiliation would have carried it to the finish line. He’s too embarrassed even to apologize as Ian carefully pulls out, and so he just buries his hot face in the pillow and listens to the snap of Ian taking off the condom and throwing it aside. The adrenaline of Mickey’s orgasm is short-lived, and once it fades he feels worse than he ever has before, and suddenly he can’t take it any more.

Ian lies down next to Mickey on the bed, pulls the comforter up over them both and rests a cool hand on Mickey’s chest - an obvious prelude to spooning. But Mickey has no intention of falling asleep just yet. He turns his head and presses his mouth to Ian’s, tasting the odd sweetness of vampire saliva and feeling his tongue go a little numb from whatever weird properties are in it (this is reason number two why Ian can’t give Mickey a blowjob - reason number one being the fangs, obviously). Mickey reaches over and starts rubbing Ian’s flat belly with his hand, and feels Ian smile, obviously remembering their earlier conversation.

When Ian seems nice and relaxed, Mickey starts rubbing his hand lower and lower, until the L of his thumb and forefinger are framing Ian’s dick and balls, with their crisp curls of ginger hair. He feels Ian’s mouth open silently - the vampire equivalent of a gasp - and is emboldened to wrap a hand around Ian’s cock, which is still completely hard.

Ian seems to indulge in it for a moment, his eyelashes fluttering against Mickey’s cheek, but then he draws back and grabs Mickey’s wrist and says, like he always does, ‘Don’t worry, I’m good.’

Mickey was ready for this, though. ‘I just wanna jerk you off,’ he coaxes, not moving his hand but maintaining a light squeeze on Ian’s dick. ‘I just wanna touch your dick, just for a while.’ He kisses Ian’s worried mouth, feels it slacken a little. ‘Gets me so fucking hot.’ He tightens his grip on Ian fractionally, then loosens it so he’s barely touching him, teasing. ‘Can I?’

Ian lets out a small, desperate noise. Then he reaches down and wraps his cold fingers around Mickey’s hot ones, gets that firm pressure back on his dick. ‘OK, yeah,’ Ian says. And then, seemingly more to himself than to Mickey, he adds, ‘Just a little bit. Just for a while.’

Resisting the urge to sing with joy, Mickey grabs the lube, squirts some into his palm and then resumes touching Ian quickly. And then he’s fucking _away._

It feels like he’s been training his whole life for this. He’s like a goddamn athlete at the Olympics. He’s fucking Jimmy Page playing the “Stairway to Heaven” guitar solo at Madison Square Gardens. This is the Mona Lisa of hand jobs. Mickey’s pulling out every dirty trick he knows, every scrap of knowledge he has about what Ian likes, every sweet move he’s ever tried that has made guys bite their lips in ecstasy. And it’s working, Ian’s fucking loving it, making these whiny little noises in the back of his throat and pushing his hips up like he can’t fucking help it. Mickey slides his other hand down to cup Ian’s balls and feels them drawing up, getting tight.

‘You want me to stop?’ he asks huskily, relishing Ian’s squeak of protest. ‘Or do you want me to make you come?’

And Ian pleads, without any hesitation at all, ‘Don’t stop, Mick, don’t stop, make me come, oh god, oh fuck, I’m there, I’m… I’m…’ And then he’s tensed up and twitching and there’s slick wetness covering Mickey’s hand and he’s grinning wildly, his hand still moving, so fucking happy that he finally did this for Ian.

Then he smells the blood.

Ian is still coming, shivering his way into the aftershocks, but the smell quickly thickens on the air. At first Mickey panics, thinks that somehow he’s injured himself or Ian has accidentally bitten him in a fit of passion and now the blood is going to send Ian into a feeding frenzy. But it doesn’t smell like Mickey’s blood, doesn’t even really smell like human blood.

Mickey frowns, lets go of Ian’s dick and brings his hands up from under the comforter and lets loose a yell of shock. Because his hands are covered in blood, there’s blood fucking _everywhere_.

There’s no afterglow for poor Ian. Mickey’s shout shocks him out of it and then Ian lifts the comforter and Mickey catches a glimpse of a smeared, bloody mess all over his belly and groin. Ian sees it too, and he lets out a terrible wail and scrambles away from Mickey, bunching the comforter up against his bloody crotch and then burying his face in his hands, smearing crimson all over it.

Mickey’s heart is racing, his head is spinning, and he doesn’t know what the fuck just happened so he says, ‘Ian, what the _fuck?_ ’

And that’s when Ian bolts. Jumps off the bed, scampers naked into the bathroom, and slams the door behind him.

-

Mickey rests the back of his head against the wood of the bathroom door wearily. It’s locked. Right after Ian ran in there, Mickey heard him running a bath, but now it’s all quiet in there except for the occasional quiet splash. If such a thing were actually possible, Mickey would worry that Ian had drowned.

Finally he figures enough time has passed for Ian to calm down a bit so he says softly, like he’s talking to a wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook, ‘You OK in there?’

There’s no answer. Not even a splash. Mickey hangs his head, looks down at the blood crusted under his nails.

‘I’m not mad,’ he says, which is obvious but he’s concerned about might be going through Ian’s head. ‘I’m just worried about you.’ Still no answer. ‘Please, Ian, would you just let me in so I can see you’re OK?’

The lock on the bathroom door is super shitty and Mickey could get in with ease, but he figures he’s trampled on enough of Ian’s boundaries for one night. So he just waits, as patiently as he can, and he’s just starting to doze off against the door when he hears the lock click open, and then the quiet padding of feet and the splash of water as Ian gets back in the bath.

Mickey stands up, opens the door slowly, looks into the bathroom. He was half braced for a giant bloody mess all over the walls and floor, but it’s pretty clean. Ian is sitting in a bath that’s half full of pinkish water, his arms hugging his knees to his chest, his head lowered in something that looks suspiciously like shame.

Gentleness doesn’t come easy to Mickey, but he can make a fucking effort for Ian. He approaches the bath cautiously, then sits down on the floor next to it, cross-legged. He drops a hand over the side, dips it into the water, and finds that it’s almost gone cold.

‘You like it warm, right?’ he asks. He waits for Ian’s minute nod before turning the hot tap and letting fresh water rush into the bath, steam rising around them.

It’s not until the water is up to Ian’s knees and Mickey turns it off to stop the bath from overflowing that Ian finally speaks.

‘When I come, it’s blood instead of spunk,’ he intones, not looking up.

Mickey nods. ‘Yeah, I figured that out.’

Finally, Ian looks at him. His eyes are red - literally. Apparently vampires’ tears are as bloody as their jizz. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s so…’ He pulls a disgusted face.

‘Hey,’ Mickey says gently. ‘You’re talking to a guy who licks his own balls. You don’t gotta be embarrassed around me.’

‘I just shot _blood_ out of my _dick_ ,’ Ian counters, raising his voice.

‘I keep finding mouse bones in my shit,’ Mickey volleys back, speaking even louder.

‘Every time I come it looks like I got my period!’

‘Oh yeah? Well I got fleas.’

For a moment it looks like Ian is going to milk the bloody-come thing again, but he pauses and scowls. ‘No you don’t.’

‘Yeah, I do,’ Mickey says, and he tips his head forward and brushes his hand through his hair to let Ian see his scalp and the little parasites crawling around on it.

That seems to shut Ian up, at least temporarily. After a moment or two Mickey realizes the vampire’s shoulders are shaking, and at first he’s worried that Ian is crying again. Then he realizes that the asshole is laughing, these big hiccupping clicks of laughter, and Mickey grins slowly in relief.

Ian lets go of his knees, lets his legs straighten out in the bath, his heels squeaking along the bottom of it. He rubs his forearm over his eyes, still chuckling, then looks up at Mickey with a watery smile and says, ‘You’re so fucking weird.’

‘ _You’re_ fucking weird,’ Mickey says, and then he’s yelling in protest as Ian grabs him under his arms and drags him into the bath, soaking Mickey’s shirt and boxers. Water splashes over the floor as their laughter echoes around the small bathroom, and they don’t make it back to the bed for quite a while.


	6. Dog Years

It’s the rock digging into the side of Mickey’s face that wakes him up. When he’s running around on all fours, he doesn’t always pick the smartest places to fall asleep, and now he’s probably going to have a stupid mark on his face all day.

Mickey groans in discontent, slowly picks himself up off the ground. He’s thrown his back out again, and he can feel the sciatica creeping down his leg, numbing his left buttcheek and the back of his thigh. This full moon was a bad one. It’s probably going to take days for Mickey’s body to recover, maybe even weeks, and before he has much time to relax it will be the full moon all over again.

Trying to push that thought out of his head, Mickey limps his way to the tree where he stashed his clothes, pulls them on as quickly as he can before someone spots a naked old guy out here and calls the cops. He brought some wet wipes too, and he uses them to wipe the worst of the dirt and blood off his face and hands before slowly making his way home.

He lives in the suburbs now. By the time Terry died most of the Milkoviches had moved out and gentrification had claimed the South Side, so Mickey put his foot down and said they were going to sell the house and split the cash. No one argued too much about it - the property value was off the charts by then, and they all made a decent chunk off it. Mickey put his share together with his savings and bought a house just outside the city, close to the woods. It’s not big, but it’s well-built and, most importantly, it has a basement.

There’s a guy sitting on the stoop when Mickey gets back, and once he recognizes the guy he scowls deeply and growls, ‘What did I tell you about hanging out in front of my place?’

‘I knocked, but you were out,’ the man says smoothly, standing up and donning his most charming smile. He looks like goddamn fashion model - artfully dishevelled hair, tailored clothes, high cheekbones - and when Mickey gets closer he feels a curl of lust in his stomach.

‘Cut that shit out,’ he warns with a dark glare. ‘You ain’t gonna get a better price by working your fucking mojo on me. All you’re gonna get is a bottle of holy water shoved up your ass.’

The incubus deflates a little, and Mickey feels the brief pulse of arousal dissipate. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying.’

‘I got a fuckin’ boyfriend, Travis.’

‘Mmm, Ian,’ Travis says, in the same tone a human might use to say, “Mmm, chocolate cake.” ‘How is that gorgeous creature?’

Mickey jams the key in his front door, opens it. ‘Sleeping. So keep the goddamn noise down.’

He lumbers inside, sits down heavily at the kitchen table, lights a cigarette and takes a long, slow drag while he watches Travis shrug a backpack off his shoulder and unzip it.

‘I’ve brought you some pretty things today, Mikhailo,’ the incubus says, curling his tongue lovingly around the shape of Mickey’s full name. ‘I think you’re going to be happy.’

Mickey just half-raises one eyebrow in a bored manner. He’s heard the same line before, in a thousand different variations. Not much impresses him these days.

Travis’ pretty things include a genuine pearl necklace, a fake Rolex, three gold wedding rings and two diamond engagement rings, a gold tooth, a solid silver letter opener, and a fake silver chain. Mickey assesses them quickly, then tosses the fakes back across the table.

‘You can keep this shit,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you two hundred for the rest.’

‘Two hundred?’ Travis clutches at his chest as though Mickey has dealt him a mortal wound. ‘Do you know how many people died for me to put together this little haul?’

‘Five,’ Mickey says shortly. He might be old, but his sense of smell hasn’t faded.

Travis pouts. ‘It’s worth more than two hundred.’

‘Of course it fucking is, how do you think I make a profit?’

‘Two-fifty.’

‘One-ninety. My best offer.’ Mickey threads his tattooed fingers together and leans across the table. ‘You want to keep pushing me, Travis?’

The incubus’ charming mask slips briefly, just long enough for Mickey to see that he’s genuinely pissed off. Then it’s back in place, and Travis lets out a theatrical sigh. ‘Very well. I’ll take the two hundred.’

‘One-ninety,’ Mickey corrects, the legs of his chair scraping noisily against the floor as he stands up to go and get the cash out of a drawer.

Once he’s kicked Travis out and double-checked the locks on the doors, Mickey goes upstairs and takes a long, hot bath, closing his eyes in relief as the heat soaks into his sore back and slowly eases the pain. He scrubs the dirt from his skin, the loofah brushing over his many tattoos and deep scars, and washes his hair with Ian’s fancy shampoo. Mickey still has all of his hair, thank god, but it’s more salt than pepper now. To be honest, there isn’t much pepper left.

Eventually the water gets cold and Mickey climbs out of the bath, brushes his teeth - including the gold ones he bought when a couple of the real ones fell out - and runs the electric razor over his face. He looks at himself in the mirror while he does it, takes in the deep lines and heavy jowls and the eyebrows that are starting to get kinda weird and bushy. He combs his hair. He gets dressed.

Mickey knows that he should probably start hitting up his contacts about selling the stuff that he just got from Travis, but it’s the day after the full moon and he deserves a goddamn break. So instead he grabs a nice cold beer from the fridge and goes to sit out on the porch in the armchair he dragged out there. He puts his feet up on an old stool, gets in a position where his back doesn’t hurt so much, and watches the world go by.

It’s not a bad life he’s made for them, Mickey thinks. God knows he and Ian have had their rough patches. They’ve broken up four or five times, with the longest break-up seeing them separated for more than twelve years. When Ian came back after that he seemed shocked to see how much Mickey had aged, like in his head it had only been a few weeks, and though he hadn’t said it out loud Mickey could tell that Ian was haunted by the lost time, that huge chunk of Mickey’s life when they’d been apart. But now they’ve had almost twenty years together, twenty mostly good years, even though they still fight sometimes. It’s a good life that Mickey’s had.

And it’s almost over.

Ian doesn’t know. He still makes Mickey these healthy breakfasts, makes Mickey take these stupid multivitamins, gets these worried looks when he sees the fridge full of bacon and beer and other unhealthy foods. Ian is so transparent that Mickey can practically see him doing the calculations in his head, figuring that if Mickey eats right and exercises and stays out of trouble they could have another thirty years together, maybe even forty.

Mickey lets him think that, because he doesn’t want Ian to stop giving him shit and start handling him with kid gloves. But a couple of months ago Mickey sat in the doctor’s office and listened with a kind of numb detachment while the doctor told him about the thing that's wrong with his heart, and how Mickey could potentially live for another year or more if he made a few lifestyle changes and Mickey had just nodded and been vaguely weirded out by how calm he was.

The doc put him on the waiting list for a new heart, but Mickey could tell it was just a formality. He’s been drinking and smoking his whole life, and he’s pretty old, and there are plenty of young people with bad hearts who eat right and don’t drink or smoke who are way, way, way higher up the list than he is. Mickey’s time is going to be up soon, and when it happens it’s going to happen fast. There’ll be a pain in his chest and his arm and then it’ll be _Goodnight, Moon_ for him.

He hopes that Ian will be OK. He still seems so young, and not just because he still looks like a teenager. He’s still sweet and passionate and naive and overly dramatic about stupid things. Mickey’s written him a letter, and he’s saved up some money, and forged up a fake identity for Ian so that the house could be left to him in Mickey’s will. It’s all that he can do. The rest is up to Ian.

When the sun sets, Mickey heads down into the basement with a pint glass full of blood. He descends the steps just as the lid of Ian’s coffin is opening, the vampire sitting up and blinking blearily, rubbing reddish-brown sleep crust from his eyes. He smiles when he sees Mickey.

‘Breakfast in bed?’ Ian comments, his voice a little husky from sleep. ‘Alright, what did you break?’

‘Fuck you, Gallagher,’ Mickey retorts, without much heat. He reaches the coffin and holds the glass back, out of reach, smirking. ‘You don’t want it then?’

‘Didn’t say that,’ Ian says quickly, but he’s smiling too, showing off his bright little fangs. Mickey leans in and kisses that smile, savoring Ian’s cool, smooth lips.

It does feel weird, sometimes. Especially when they go out at night together and people pass them and they stare at the old guy hanging out with this underage-looking teen, and Mickey wonders what they think - maybe that he’s some sad closeted married guy who’s hired a rent boy for the evening. And yeah, getting old, _looking_ old while Ian looks as young as ever, it sucks. Sometimes Mickey worries that he’s starting to look like Terry, but the one time he mentioned this insecurity to Ian the vampire had just blinked at him owlishly and said, ‘You just look like Mickey to me.’

Their sleep schedules are different, which limits the amount of time they get to spend together (and may be why they’ve lasted this long), but Mickey stays up for a while and watches Ian pick out his clothes for the night, for when he’ll go out and find a victim. He’s tired, and his back hurts, but Ian’s bare skin is so lovely and Mickey is still kind of stirred up from Travis’ visit earlier, so he pulls Ian over to the bed and they have sex for the first time in a while. Afterwards, Mickey combs his fingers through Ian’s bright hair and breathes in his cool, familiar scent.

Tonight might be their last night together, or maybe a week from now or even months from now. But Mickey’s seen a lot of strange things in his lifetime and he thinks that if zombies and werewolves and vampires and witches all exist, then there’s a good chance that some kind of afterlife exists as well. He's definitely curious to find out.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Ian asks softly, his mouth carefully pressed to Mickey’s shoulder.

Mickey sighs, closes his eyes, starts to drift off to sleep. ‘Nothing,’ he replies drowsily. ‘Nothing at all.’


	7. B-A-T-H

‘Ow, ow, ow…’

‘Hold still.’

‘They’re biting me! Like right now, the little fuckers are biting me!’

‘Don’t take it personally.’

‘Fucking nasty little fucking blood-suckers.’

‘Hey! That’s kind of offensive, you know.’

Mickey glares at Ian from under his dripping bangs. It’s more of a squint, really, since he’s trying to avoid getting the medicated shampoo in his eyes. It’s already making the bites on his scalp sting like a motherfucker, and the fleas are apparently launching a final assault before they die. Ian doesn’t seem to have much sympathy, though, because he carries on lathering up Mickey’s hair, focusing on the areas behind his ears and the nape of his neck.

They’re in Ian’s apartment, because the lock on the Milkovich bathroom door sucks and people are always barging in, and it’s kind of hard to explain why your vampire boyfriend is giving you a flea bath to a family that still thinks you’re A) straight and B) human. This whole stupid thing was Ian’s idea in the first place. Mickey had a perfectly good truce going on with the fleas, but now Ian has started a fucking war with them. Just because he got sick of Mickey scratching all the time.

Mickey grimaces and snaps, ‘Can we wash this shit off already?’

Ian isn’t in the bath, but his clothes are so soaked at this point that he might as well be. He peers at the bottle and shakes his head. ‘It says we gotta leave it for five minutes.’

‘Ugh!’ Mickey folds his arms angrily, rests them on his knees. He notices the sharp little points of Ian’s fangs out of the corner of his eye and realizes that the vampire is grinning. ‘What’s so goddamn funny?’

‘You’re kind of cute when you’re mad.’

‘Cute, huh? How about I stick a crucifix up your ass, see how cute you think that is.’

It might not seem like it to an outside observer, but this is the honeymoon phase of their relationship. Once the whole secret of Ian’s unusual love-juice was out in the open, the sex got a lot better and they started doing it almost every night. It’s a little messier than what Mickey is used to, but it’s still not the weirdest sex he’s ever had. Turning into a wolf once a month gives a guy great perspective on life.

After what feels like at least ten minutes of stinging and seething, Ian relents and turns on the showerhead, makes Mickey lean forward while the suds are rinsed out of his hair. He would never admit it, but the whole ordeal is almost worth it for the feel of Ian fingers gently massaging his scalp. Afterwards, Mickey sits between Ian’s legs watching the TV while Ian runs a fine-toothed comb through his hair, picking out the stunned fleas and dropping them into a bowl of water to drown them.

‘Why don’t you just squish them?’ Mickey asks, watching his former houseguests wriggle their tiny legs in their final death throes.

Ian hesitates before answering. ‘They’ve been biting you. If I squished them your blood would come out.’

‘Gross.’

‘Yeah. And… it could be dangerous.’

Mickey tips his head back, looks up into Ian’s worried face. ‘You really think that little smudge of blood would set you off?’

Ian shudders, closes his eyes tight shut, grits his teeth. ‘Fuck,’ he says. ‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Stretch your neck out like that, and talk about blood. Jesus, Mick. You need to _think_.’

His temper rising, Mickey looks ahead at the TV again, but he can’t concentrate on what’s happening on the screen. He stays where he is for a while, until he figures enough time has passed that Ian won’t attribute his leaving to the conversation they just had, and then he stands up, crosses the room to pick his coat up from where he left it, on top of Ian’s coffin.

‘I’m gonna head back,’ he says, in what he hopes is a casual tone. ‘Gotta help my dad out with something.’

There’s a pregnant pause while Mickey shrugs his coat on. Then Ian asks, skeptically, ‘Right now?’

‘Yeah, I kinda forgot about it but he’s going to be pissed if I…’ Mickey stops when he sees that Ian is off the bed, standing up, a serious expression on his face that’s all too familiar, and Mickey silently pleads with Ian not to turn this into a _thing_.

But of course, he turns it into a thing.

‘You gonna run out on me every time things get real?’ Ian asks in this dumb dramatic voice.

Mickey laughs in his face. ‘Fuck, Gallagher, this ain’t the goddamn _OC_. What are you gonna do next - throw a drink in my face, bitch-slap me?’ He heads towards the door, but Ian steps in front of him.

‘I just want you to take this seriously.’

‘Take this seriously, asshole.’ Mickey flips him off with both hands - saluting Ian with the “C” tattoo of his right middle finger and the little dash on his left. Then he barges past, shoulder-checking Ian on the way. He’s reaching out to open the door, and then quite suddenly Mickey is on his back, the breath knocked out of him, Ian straddling him and pinning both wrists to the floor.

‘Fight me off,’ Ian commands, his eyes gleaming coldly.

‘What the _fuck_ , psycho!’ Mickey yells, thrashing his legs, trying to kick Ian on the groin. He can’t get the right angle though, and Ian is terrifyingly strong. Mickey can’t get his wrists free, can’t even move them.

‘I’m not even fucking trying, Mickey. What are you gonna do if this happens for real, huh? What are you going to do?’

Ian’s lowers his head, shoving his face close to Mickey’s, and suddenly Mickey knows exactly how he's going to get out of this. He bares his teeth in a snarl, then whips his head up and smashes his forehead hard into Ian’s nose. The vampire yelps and his grip weakens just long enough for Mickey to throw him off, and then he’s on top of Ian and punching him hard in the face - once, twice, three times, but as he readies another blow he stops, his clenched fist shaking where it’s pulled back. He looks down at Ian, who is covering his face with his arms, and Mickey takes a deep, steadying breath and drops his hand back to his side.

‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK.’

He climbs off Ian and sits there, kneeling next to the crumpled vampire, still breathing hard and trying to calm down. His Milkovich genes and his werewolf blood are boiling together, telling him to tear everything to goddamn pieces and burn it down and then piss on the ashes.

Slowly, Ian lowers his hands. He drops them to his sides, stares up at the ceiling, his eyes smeared with red. Mickey looks down at him for a while. Then he says, quietly, ‘Come here.’

When Ian fails to respond, Mickey grips him by the elbow, pulls him up into a sitting position. Ian goes with it, unresisting, but when Mickey pulls him in the vampire suddenly stiffens, tries to pull back.

‘No, Mickey,’ he mumbles urgently. ‘Don’t.’

‘Shut up,’ Mickey says firmly. And he brings his hand up to palm the back of Ian’s head, threads his fingers through the coppery locks of hair, and guides Ian’s face to his throat.

‘Mickey!’ Ian breathes, panicked.

‘Just stop.’ Mickey can feel Ian’s cold mouth against the hot skin of his throat now, can feel the outline of his fangs, right above the big, throbbing artery in his neck.

But Ian doesn’t bite him. They sit on the floor in an odd embrace - Mickey’s arms tight around Ian, Ian’s face buried in the curve of Mickey’s neck. And after a few long minutes he feels Ian finally start to relax a little, the tension of his muscles ratcheting down in degrees, until he’s slumped against Mickey, defeated.

Mickey turns his head and kisses Ian’s ear, his cheek, pulls the vampire’s head back and kisses his worried mouth until Ian starts to kiss back, and quite suddenly Mickey’s body decides that it’s done with fight mode and is now in fuck mode, and this time he doesn’t bother fighting the impulse. He lets his legs fall open and Ian crawls in between them, starts grinding down against Mickey’s hardening dick and making these hurt, helpless little noises.

The bed is right there, but they fuck on the floor, the boards cool against Mickey’s back and Ian cool on top of him, shoving Mickey’s knees up until they’re almost touching his shoulders and dropping his whole goddamn weight into every thrust until Mickey has no option but to come - his head thrown back, his neck carelessly bared.

Ian takes him to bed, after, combing his fingers through Mickey’s still-damp hair. This peace feels shaky, fragile, and in a part of his brain that Mickey’s trying stubbornly to ignore he knows that this isn’t the last time they’ll fight about this. It’s not something that they can deal with and then file away on the “Done” pile, never to be spoken of again. This is insurmountable.

‘You’re not scratching any more,’ Ian mumbles in his ear. ‘I think I got all the fleas.’

Mickey smirks, and as he does so he feels a familiar tickle in his hair at the nape of his neck. But he doesn’t scratch it.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I think you did.’


End file.
